The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
by informantxgirl
Summary: Eliot and Nate have seen every side of each other. Short Nate/Eliot vignettes set pre-series.
1. The Good

There were a lot of things Eliot Spencer disliked.

Lukewarm beer, dull knives, people who lied through their teeth. None of these garnered a very high opinion from him.

There were, however, only a handful of things he truly, utterly, absolutely _hated_. In his line of work, _hate_ was dangerous—_hate_ made you do things. Reckless things. Dangerous things. Things that could get you maimed; things that could get you killed.

Well, any emotions of any kind were perilous, but for Eliot, _hate_ was the most hazardous, because it made him throw caution to the wind, made a red film fall over his eyes that only lifted after everything but what he'd come for had fallen in a flurry of fists and feet.

Eliot _hated_ guys who used children, plain and simple. They were cowards, some of the lowest forms of life, if they could even be called that. To involve the most innocent of victims—that was unacceptable in Eliot's book. Also, he liked kids.

Lorne Young was very much a coward, which was why he had had no qualms about putting his hostage, eight-year-old Tammy, between him and the sniper's bullet meant for his heart. Tammy's father had forked over the obscene amount of cash Young had requested, but the lowlife hadn't bothered to turn over the little girl. He'd holed himself, the girl, and countless hired goons up in the father's mansion and demanded a helicopter.

In a panic, the father had called in the cavalry. The father was some hotshot government type, while Young was on the Most Wanted lists of several law enforcement agencies, so local PD, state troopers, FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and even some Interpol agents had arrived.

Much good that did little Tammy.

Twenty hours passed by fruitlessly. Young was both very clever and very lucky. Almost everything was in his favor. The house was a veritable fortress. It boasted a state-of-the-art security system that was meant to protect the house's occupants; it was now what the criminals barricaded inside used to ensure they wouldn't be subject to a surprise attack.

Furthermore, the herd of people milling around the property were in the throes of a jurisdiction struggle, meaning that even if a sniper was able to get a lock on the jerk, he'd have to waste precious moments waiting for someone to okay the shot.

And, most importantly, he was worth more alive than dead. Eliot didn't know the details (details weren't his department), but the guy knew things that were important enough for the DA to demand assurance that he would be allowed to continue breathing. Things about an organized crime syndicate apparently.

And of course, no one wanted little Tammy to get hurt, although it seemed to Eliot this was the last thing on everyone's mind. Even the FBI agent who'd called him in (an old contact who was at his wits' end as to what to do in the situation) seemed more concerned with getting Young to a safehouse than about getting the eight-year-old out alive.

This was all good news for Lorne Young. Too bad he was so much of a lunkhead, he'd gone ahead and kidnapped an innocent little girl for a silly ransom. He was bound and determined to leave the country, more afraid of his former bosses than of anything the law could throw at him, and since his funds were frozen, he'd decided the best way to score a large amount of cash was to nab little Tammy.

Silently, Eliot scouted out the house, looking for any way he could breach it quietly and quickly. He made sure not to draw attention to himself, since he wasn't there in any official capacity, and he didn't want to waste time answering any unnecessary questions. He understood the gravity of the situation; when an FBI agent dials you and says only, "Retrieval", he means business.

A half hour later, Eliot was sighing at the stupidity of criminals as he rappelled off the roof after disabling part of the security system and silently entered the house. Of course, there was a guard at the window he entered through, but he was handled quietly and with a minimum of fuss.

Eliot walked assuredly down the dark corridor, his night vision goggles wrapped securely around his head. The blueprints he'd studied earlier and committed to memory had shown a crawlspace that allowed access to the corridor just outside the room where Tammy was being held. He was just about to hunker down and fit his muscular frame inside when he heard a rustling noise behind him.

Lightning-quick, he spun around in the direction of the noise. At that moment, a brilliant beam of light overwhelmed the field of his night vision goggles and he swore as he turned away from its source. He ripped off his goggles and blinked rapidly to clear the pain from his eyes. As he was regaining his vision, a fist connected with his jaw. He swung out, connecting with bone and flesh. A relatively silent struggle ensued in the dark, Eliot against three or four guards; he wasn't certain of the exact number. The light (and from its intensity, Eliot guessed it was a xenon beam) that had been shown into his eyes had temporarily impaired his vision. He was fighting more or less blind, but he'd been in more dire straits before and it didn't particularly bother him. In fact, he was more than holding his own. He'd felled at least two of his attackers, when he heard a voice blare out from one of the minions' walkie-talkies: "Tell whoever it is that if he doesn't surrender immediately, I'm cutting off one of these sweet little fingers. Shall I start with the pinky?"

It didn't sound like a bluff. At any rate, even if it was, Eliot couldn't risk it. Grunting, he let go of the goon he had in a chokehold and held his hands up to indicate he was giving in.

The two guards still standing frog-marched him to the stairs at the end of the hallway, a little more roughly than necessary since he wasn't putting up a fight. They were obviously paying him back for the bruises he'd inflicted.

Eliot carefully took note of the number and design of windows and doors he passed, seeing if any could serve as an escape route; he was so engrossed in this task, he barely noticed they'd reached their destination until he was shoved rudely forward into a brightly-lit room. Quickly taking in his surroundings, he ascertained that they were in the study. Bookshelves lined the chocolate-colored walls and a massive, wooden globe stood off to one side, in front of a fireplace that currently had a small fire going. A large painting of a girl sitting at a piano hung above the fireplace, in front of which were two velvet armchairs; in one of them was a bound and gagged little girl in scuffed-up jeans and dirty t-shirt. It made Eliot beyond furious at the signs of abuse heaped onto poor little Tammy, but he knew he had to focus if he was going to get the two of them out alive.

Dominating the room was an ornate mahogany desk, behind which sat the man himself—Lorne Young. The animal that sprang to mind when looking at him was _weasel_, although Eliot conceded it wasn't an unbiased assessment.

Young studied him like a little boy watching a parade of ants, magnifying glass at the ready. He stood, and gestured for the guards to leave, apparently comfortable that he could take care of Eliot on his own, if the need arose. With Tammy in the room, of course it wouldn't.

Young rounded the desk and came to stand before Eliot. "And who might you be with? CIA? FBI? DEA? Or am I guessing from the wrong side of the law? One of the New Jersey families, maybe?"

Eliot stared unflinchingly at him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hope blossom in little Tammy's tear-filled eyes.

Eliot imagined all the ways he was going to hurt this loser scumbag. His intention must have been clear in his face, because Young stepped back slightly, as if shocked, but then, his face shifted into a parody of a smile. "Well, I don't care who sent you…"

A commotion from outside drew his attention away from Eliot. Before Eliot could take advantage of his lapse, however, the door banged open, and the same two guards who had led him in entered holding a man by the arms.

Their captive was in a neat, blue three-piece business suit, a matching fedora perched on his head. Eliot felt a jolt of astonishment as the man was pushed forward and his face became visible.

The newcomer took in the scene before him, his countenance wholly unperturbed, even when his eyes flickered over Eliot with a short flash of recognition. He asked, almost conversationally, "What are you doing here, Spencer?"

"I'm here for the girl," Eliot pronounced through gritted teeth.

Nathan Ford smiled. "I'm here for the painting."

Of course. A painting. Why else would the top man at I.Y.S. be here if not for some priceless work of art or some other similarly absurdly valuable gewgaw or doodad?

They'd met…Eliot couldn't actually remember where; possibly somewhere on the African continent, though he wasn't certain. Much alcohol had been involved. Then a scuffle in an alleyway that had involved daggers and their shoes.

They'd run into each other a handful of times, always in different locales. At first blush, Ford came off as a paper-pusher pleased as punch to be away from his desk. He was an insurance man, and he knew his stuff.

Over their repeated run-ons, Eliot came to realize his stuffy by-the-book-persona was just that; a persona. Beneath the tailored suits was the mind and soul of a gutter fighter, a man more than ready to fight down in the dirt, if the need arose. Eliot respected that.

What he didn't respect was the ruthless corporate mentality. It was always about the bottom line with Nate, always about policies and claims. Money and things, when it came down to it; for Eliot, it was people—always and only people. He was no knight in shining armor, but he had his own brand of chivalry.

Taking Eliot's silence for a lack of comprehension, Nate volunteered, "It's a Degas."

"You shouldn't be here," growled Eliot.

The sound of Young clearing his throat made them both turn in his direction. "I'm sorry to break up this little reunion, but for all intents and purposes, _I'm_ the host here, and I'd appreciate knowing the identity of my…_guests_."

Nate turned to the criminal, his demeanor assured, a professional smile on his face. Eliot had to admit to being slightly awed by his unflappability. He was also curious as to how an insurance guy had penetrated the top-of-the-line complex security system that had required Eliot to enlist the help of two tech experts.

Extending his hand, Nate said, business-like, "I'm Nathan Ford with I.Y.S." When Young didn't bother to shake it, he shrugged, and went on. "I apologize for barging in like this, but you just happen to be in possession of a painting I need. If you could just point me in its direction, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Silence reigned for a few seconds. Then, Young burst out in a loud guffaw that startled Tammy, who whimpered behind her gag and struggled slightly as if trying to break free of her restraints. Eliot wanted to bash the jerk's head in.

Nate didn't even blink. He merely stared ahead politely.

Young asked, "Are you confused or just crazy?" He gestured to the two thugs hovering by the door, watching for funny business. They came forward, their hands on their sidearms. The way they gripped their guns told Eliot everything he needed to know about them—ex-military, and all business.

Eliot sighed inwardly. This was giving him déjà vu about the night he'd met Ford; the bits and pieces he remembered anyway.

Nate put his hands up. "Hey, no need for any of that. I just want the painting. I'll get that and be on my way."

Young chuckled. Even the thugs looked slightly bewildered. Eliot couldn't stop himself from hissing, "This is a hostage situation! A little girl's life hangs in the balance!"

Nate continued to appear unfazed, and Eliot started wondering what exactly he was up to. Claiming some painting in the middle of a kidnapping seemed like too much absurdity, though he wouldn't put it past the crafty insurance man.

The thugs and Young studied Nate for a few more moments, Eliot apparently forgotten for the moment, before Young traipsed over to the fireplace and removed the picture hanging above the mantle. He came over to Nate and held it out to him. "This painting?"

Smiling, Nate reached for the canvas; Young held it away from him. "This thing is important?"

Nate nodded. "You see, this little Degas is worth…oh, a tidy sum. I know for a fact you don't plan to take it with you. Art theft isn't part of your established M.O. See, little Tammy's father has to worry about his daughter, but _we_ have to worry about his art. We insure it, you see, and if anything were to happen to this little beauty….well, we'd be shelling out quite a bit."

Young set the painting down on the arms of the velvet chair opposite Tammy as Nate continued. "So my boss decided it was just best to confiscate it before anything could happen to it. Getting caught in the crossfire and all that."

So Nate had been aware of the situation, Eliot realized. Exactly how insane did someone have to be to charge into the midst of danger for a work of art? Then Eliot remembered their first meeting and decided—Nathan Ford was definitely that level of crazy.

Young smirked down at picture of the little pianist, done in vivid pastel colors. "Just exactly how much is this worth?"

Eliot was more than ready to kick someone's head in. How could they be standing around talking about the price of a stupid painting with a frightened little girl in the room?

Just as he took a step forward, however, intent on inflicting violence on the smug kidnapper, he caught Nate's eye. A brief flash of understanding sparked between them; in that instant, Eliot knew with precise clarity what the other man planned to do. It made him smile. He gave the tiniest nod to show that he understood the game and tensed, adjusting his stance so he was ready to grab Tammy.

Nate stepped forward, picking up the canvas. "Ah, the most important question of all. How much is this worth? Is it worth more than the life of one little girl?"

He turned to Young, who was staring with an expectant smile. Nate gave him one of his own grins—one Eliot had seen before, one that was a portent of the storm to come.

In one swift movement, Nate brought the painting down over Young's head. The canvas tore with a sickening sound and the wood of the frame splintered across the kidnapper's brow, cutting it in several places.

Eliot moved quickly, grabbing Tammy under one arm, and twisting out of the way of the hired goons' weapons. He ran for the closest exit, the little girl sobbing and screaming for her father, the sounds muffled by her gag. A hail of bullets erupted behind them, but adrenaline and training served Eliot well, ensuring his safe escape with the terrified child. He was so concerned with her welfare, he didn't even turn to see if Nate had made it out after them.

He appeared later, of course, when Tammy had been safely returned to her father and the various law enforcement guys had finally realized where they were and what they had to do. They breached the house, no longer worried about inadvertently hurting a hostage, and grabbed Young. Eliot couldn't help but grin with satisfaction to see the scumbag led away in handcuffs. Of course, he was probably being taken to a safehouse, but with Tammy's father's clout, he wouldn't be safe there for long.

Eliot was getting ready to leave when Nate showed up. They broke off from the small crowd gathered on the lawn.

Eliot was the first to speak. "So the painting…?"

Nate grinned. "It had to be written off anyway. It was a fake."

Eliot wasn't sure what to make of that. "What if it hadn't been?"

Nate appeared to contemplate this for a few moments. He shrugged. "I guess we'll never know." He winked and walked away.

Eliot smirked; Nathan Ford was capable of being a good guy even when expensive objects weren't involved. It was a fascinating insight into the man—his brief turn as a white hat and their surprising ability to work together so seamlessly. It felt…Eliot didn't know quite the word for it, except _right_. Playing good guy with Nate Ford that evening had been highly satisfying.

Too bad Eliot could never be a good guy.

He hated that about himself.


	2. The Bad

Winters in Istanbul were often cold and wet, and at that moment, Eliot Spencer was both.

He'd spent the past hour staking out the art gallery. If it could even be called that. It was a tiny space tucked into one of the innumerable alleys of the Grand Bazaar, all but lost in the confusing labyrinth of one of the world's largest covered markets. The scent of countless spices hung in the air, the sharpness of cardamom warring with the sweetness of cinnamon. Nearby, tourists rubbed elbows with vendors, trying to get the best deals on carpets and hookah pipes. Though the cold had kept most people at home, there was a still a substantial crowd wandering around—perfect for hiding Eliot's surveillance efforts.

However, sixty minutes traversing up and down the alley, being jostled by elbows and shooed out of photos, in the chilly, damp air, had worn his patience thin. He replayed his objectives in his mind: get in, get the thing, get out. It seemed a simple, straightforward task. In fact, he had to wonder why the client had even employed his services. Yes, he was a retrieval expert, and this was essentially a retrieval, but it was such an _elementary_ one. It was almost an insult to his abilities. The object in question wasn't even very rare or dangerous—just a commonplace bust of Marianne, a traditional symbol for the French Revolution.

He felt almost bad for what he planned to do. The gallery looked sad and neglected. It didn't seem like it could take the loss of even a single piece of art, no matter how insubstantial. Although the amount of money he'd been given to retrieve the bust seemed to suggest there was more to it than met the eye.

His job description didn't involve analyzing clients' motives, however. His job went more smoothly when he utilized a more Machiavellian approach, using whatever means necessary to achieve the desired end, though this didn't always sit well with his conscience.

Eliot watched the proprietor leave and noted that the crowd was as thin as it would ever be. He quickly scanned the area to make certain no one was paying attention to him, crossed over, made short work of the lock, and entered the gallery.

Despite the weather outside, several fans were on, creating a draft that made Eliot's teeth chatter slightly (this despite sporting two layers—a flak jacket and a leather one to conceal it). Inside, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Once they did, he noted that his initial assessment of the place as only barely an art gallery was correct—it seemed the only reason it could even be called that was because of the rickety sign outside that proclaimed it so in hand-painted Turkish and English letters. Two or three paintings adorned the walls, and even to Eliot's untrained eye, they seemed amateurish. Scattered on a motley collection of side tables were various sculptures and pottery pieces, all of seemingly low quality.

Even the owner didn't think much of the art on display; the lock had been a common cylinder lock, child's play to even the most inexperienced of thieves. There were no discernible signs of any sort of security system at all—no visible cameras, no lasers, not even an alarm. The message was clear: nothing in here was worth protecting.

This set off an alarm in Eliot's mind. Why hire someone with his expertise to do a job an enthusiastic teenaged hoodlum could've pulled off? He'd been cautious upon entering, but now he became hyper-aware, engaging all his senses to determine what exactly was wrong with this picture.

The bust stood on a dilapidated wooden table with rickety legs off to one side. Its cool white marble face was placid, as if reassuring him his paranoia was unfounded.

Eliot wasn't reassured.

He took one more quick look around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He stepped towards the table and grabbed the bust by the head.

Nothing happened.

At first.

The moment he stepped away from the table, he noted the small switch embedded into the wood of its surface. He recognized it immediately as a pressure switch; by taking the bust, he had raised it and set off an alert somewhere. He sighed. It was a rookie mistake, and he paid for it almost the instant he realized it was a rookie mistake—the front door opened with a bang, admitting a small pack of dark-suited muscular Turkish guys, sporting sunglasses and major artillery. They swarmed into the gallery, making it seem even more cramped than before. Once they'd taken up positions around the gallery, effectively trapping him, the crowd parted, and a single man stepped forward. His clothes (definitely bespoke, and of a costly material) and the copious amounts of jewelry he sported (pinky rings, a stud earring, and long, gold chain necklace) made it clear he was the one in charge.

And he was most certainly a bad guy.

He barked something in Turkish. Eliot's command of the language was intermediate at best, Istanbul not being one of his regular stomping grounds, but he got the gist of it: "Get him!"

Immediately, he slipped into a fighter's stance. His body, used to danger, automatically prepared itself to fight (never for flight, because he'd trained that response out of his system long ago). Under his breath, he growled, "It's not even that nice a piece."

The main gangster gave a small, crooked smile. When he spoke, he had a slight English accent, which made him seem ominous, but in a vaguely comical way—like a literary villain. "That bust happens to belong to me, so I would appreciate it if you took your hands off her."

"Listen," Eliot said finally. He addressed the entire room, but kept his eyes fixed on the boss. "I don't know what the heck this thing is, but someone asked me to get it for him, and that's what I'm going to do."

The boss let out a short, hoarse laugh. He turned to the minion closest to him and said something in Turkish that caused him to burst out into laughter. He in turn whispered to the goon nearest to him, making him snort out loud. In moments, the entire room sounded like the live audience at a sitcom taping after a particularly funny joke. The only person who remained unamused was Eliot.

The hired thugs all stopped laughing at the same time. Silence, ominous in its suddenness, descended over the room. All the goons took a simultaneous step forward.

It was a warning.

Eliot sighed inwardly. One day—_someday_—he'd quit all this and settle down to do something that didn't involve taking down hordes of humorless henchmen. Breeding horses, maybe. Horses were honest animals, unpretentious. Unlike the peacock in front of him.

The boss was posturing again, standing with his arms akimbo so that the jewels in his rings caught the light and glinted menacingly. Eliot could tell he was no longer in the mood to chat. He wanted the bust.

In a single heartbeat, Eliot made as if to toss the bust in the air. Everyone in the room reacted immediately, rushing towards him all at the same time. Taking advantage of the mad scramble, Eliot picked his way through the crowd, past all the outstretched arms and legs, the bust tucked safely inside his flak jacket. He'd made it out the door and halfway down the street before a few of the goons wised up and followed him out, their boss bellowing after them.

A smile lit Eliot's face. It turned out this assignment hadn't been quite so simple after all. He took a perverse delight in that fact. Yes, there were some days he wanted to give it all up for an easier, more predictable life—and there were moments like this, when he wouldn't trade the adrenaline rush for anything on Earth. He wondered if this was a bad thing.

Since he'd scouted the nearby alleys, he had several escape routes on hand. He chose one that would take him to the Beyazit Gate, from which he could exit and walk to the Barceló Saray hotel, where his contact was meeting him in the Turkish bath. It was a circuitous path, and he quickly lost sight of his pursuers.

He emerged from the bustle of the bazaar to the bustle of the street. Outside the market, the air was slightly fresher, though still with a slight bite. Eliot pulled his leather jacket closer to his body, surprised anew that he was cold despite wearing two layers. The bust made a bit of a bulge beneath the jacket, so he took it out and dropped it into a plastic shopping bag someone had discarded on a table in a café he passed.

He made his way to the hotel, checking surreptitiously behind him at irregular intervals for signs of people following him. No one stood out.

The rest of his walk to the Barceló Saray was uneventful. He made it to his rendezvous point with minutes to spare.

The attendants who greeted him seemed to have been expecting him, for they quickly ushered him into the surprisingly cool interior of the Turkish bath. Eliot realized the surprising lack of heat was the fact that he'd been escorted to an office, not the bath area proper. He was just about to turn and leave, thinking his guides had been mistaken, when a disembodied voice announced, "Place the bust on the desk."

Normally, Eliot would've ignored orders from a phantom, but he'd already identified the source of the voice as an intercom on the desk. And truth be told—he'd had dealings with stranger clients. The people who engaged his services tended to be bad and/or eccentric.

He did as instructed. A few moments after he'd put the bust on the table, a hand closed over its base. Eliot looked up to see its owner.

It was Nathan Ford. Of course. An object that had attracted the attention of man who so proudly displayed the extent of his funds most certainly had to be within the purview of I.Y.S.

Eliot raised one eyebrow at Ford. The insurance man grinned in that particular way of his and asked, "Do you want to know?"

Without hesitation, Eliot shook his head "no". His was the business of retrievals, nothing more. He turned to leave, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You were followed, weren't you?" Nate queried.

"No, I wasn't."

As if to put the lie to his words, several of the Turkish gangsters from the gallery burst into the office. The opulently clothed head guy was close behind them, barking orders in a furious tone.

The corners of Nate's mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile.

"Give me my bust!" After the goon nearest the desk handed Marianne over to him, he bellowed, "Kill them! Painfully!"

Eliot sighed. He'd been looking forward to sampling some apple tea and maybe picking up a Persian carpet. When was he going to have time to do that now? He hated dealing with bad guys. They could be so unpredictable, which, granted, was one of the more interesting parts of his job, but meant his attempts at a decent life were often shoved aside.

The first thug came at him swinging; Eliot easily felled him. The second and third came towards him, fists raised. That was when Nate spoke up.

"Excuse me," he said. "I was wondering if I could put a proposition before you."

The second thug tried to catch Eliot with a left hook. He easily ducked it. Nate went on talking.

"This object—this bust—I take it that it's a very hot property at the moment?" Nate looked inquiringly at the head guy.

"Why is this buffoon not in pain?" demanded the main gangster.

A thug stepped forward to handle the matter. Eliot punched him in the gut, doubling him over.

"See, I'm very good with hot properties. Moving them, that is, with a minimum of fuss and for exceptional financial remuneration."

Eliot stared at Nate for a few awed seconds. When had Ford defected to the Dark Side? Black market sales? He would never have thought...

"What do you say? It'll get everyone off your back, including this insurance guy here." He looked pointedly at Eliot as he said this last part.

Eliot did a double take at Nate's words. The head gangster frowned. "_He's _in insurance?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah. Check him."

That was when Eliot remembered Nate clapping him on the shoulder just before the horde had arrived. He was only mildly surprised when the thugs grabbed him and uncovered a business card on his person with the I.Y.S logo that was most _certainly_ not his. Especially since it identified him as one Nathan Ford.

Eliot glared futilely at the real bearer of the name. The bastard had the bust in hand and was set to waltz right out with it, leaving him to deal with a bunch of disgruntled Turkish gangsters.

"That much, huh?" The richly-clothed gangster was grinning like a child on Christmas morning at the figure Nate named. "Well, I like the sound of that."

"Yes, large numbers are poetic," agreed Nate. "In fact..." He turned and winked at Eliot. He held out three fingers behind his back, visible only to Eliot.

Damn that Nathan Ford.

Ford left with the lead gangster, who shooed aside his minions, apparently uncomfortable with having illiterate hooligans listen in on his business deals.

The moment they were out of earshot, those same illiterate hooligans descended on Eliot.

He sighed and met them head-on.

Three minutes. It took the entire three minutes Nate had promised for the police to arrive and for him to sneak off in the ensuing melee.

By the time he'd made it out, he was sporting a large collection of scratches and bruises and he was sure he'd sprained a pinky. He'd been hoping to make it out without having to experience pain, but of course, once Nate Ford came into the picture...pain was almost guaranteed. Well, for him anyway. It seemed Ford usually escaped from having his kidneys bruised ninety percent of the time.

Eliot flexed his jaw. It also hurt. He was not averse to pain, but the job had seemed so _simple_...At least he had plenty of time to drink apple tea and pick up a rug.

Damn that Nathan Ford.

That guy could be so bad sometimes.


	3. The Ugly

Aside from the occasional beer, Eliot Spencer hardly ever drank. Alcohol depressed the senses, dulled them. In his line of work, less than razor-sharp senses could be deadly.

As a result, he hardly ever frequented bars, unless it was for a job. There were only a handful of bars in the world that he went to of his own free will.

Robin Hood's of Bangkok was one of them.

It wasn't for the fact that it was an English style pub smack-dab in the middle of a bustling Southeast Asian capital, and thus, one of the few places you could assured your beer wouldn't be drowned in a mugful of ice (Thais loved ice in their beer). It wasn't for their live music or absurdly enormous plasma screen TV that always seemed to be turned to a channel showing a soccer game (or more appropriately "football", seeing as the establishment was English). No, it wasn't for any of that.

The reason why Eliot bothered to go there at all was because he was crazy for their spring rolls.

Specifically, their prawn and vegetable spring rolls. A faultless combination of shellfish and veggies wrapped in a golden pastry and deep-fried to perfection. Dipped in a sweet chili sauce just the right amount of sugary and spicy—heaven in every bite.

Some of his Thai friends had told him the spring rolls were fried a bit over-long and the sauce was too much on the syrupy side, but Eliot didn't care. To him, they were nothing less than perfection, and the precise accompaniment for an ice-cold beer, drawn straight from a tap.

That evening, the spring rolls were especially crispy, and the dimpled waitress who had brought them over had winked at him before revealing she'd popped an extra one onto the plate.

It was going to be a very pleasant evening. And he needed it, after the job he'd just completed. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the knots loosening. Even his excellent physique and superb stamina suffered from carrying a rice sack half-full of Krugerrands on his back through the jungle.

Eliot speared another spring roll with his fork, smiled at it, and proceeded to convey it to his mouth. A moment before it reached his lips, two perfectly manicured fingers closed around it like pincers and pulled it off the tines of his fork.

"Hey!" he burst out automatically.

He looked up, ready to loudly confront the person with the gall to steal one of his spring rolls—the face he saw made him groan out loud.

"Nate Ford," he spat out. Eliot shook his head and stuck his fork viciously through one of the spring rolls remaining on the plate. The plate jumped slightly in reaction to his violent movement.

I.Y.S's top man grinned and sat down, uninvited, next to him at the bar. "A lager over here," he told the bartender. Then, he had the audacity to bite into the purloined spring roll.

If Eliot was the kind of guy to roll his eyes, he would have. Instead, he merely shook his head grumpily, shot Ford a menacing look, and went back to the business of polishing off his spring rolls. The arrival of Nate Ford usually portended unpleasantness, and he would rather just avoid any and all unpleasantness at the moment.

Nate reached out as if to take away another of his tasty morsels, but Eliot's lightning-quick reflexes stood him in good stead. He swiftly blocked the other man's hand. "Back off," he growled. He hugged the plate to him—before he realized how ridiculous he must've looked. He set it back down reluctantly and turned to glare at the intruder, who was now placidly sipping at a tall mug of beer. "I don't want to know why you're here."

Nate smiled smugly. "I wasn't about to tell you."

"I do, however, want to know when you'll be _leaving _here."

"Here?" echoed Nate. "Here as in Bangkok or here as in Thailand?"

"_Here_ as in my general vicinity," Eliot snarled. "When?"

Nate didn't answer straightaway. The insurance man had pulled over a bowl of cocktail peanuts; since they were in Thailand, the nuts were mixed with a liberal amount of dried kaffir leaves and chilies. He busied himself with daintily picking out a few peanuts, brushing aside the added ingredients, looking for all the world like it was the most important task he'd ever been assigned.

Eliot wondered if _Nate Ford_ was a synonym for _exasperating_.

"I'm beginning to think you really don't want to know why I'm here," he finally said.

"I don't!" Eliot snapped. "I just want to relax with my spring rolls and my beer…"

Nate fished out another peanut. "You don't think it's a little odd that I showed up the night after you trekked out of the Burmese jungle with almost three hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold in a little burlap sack?"

Eliot didn't even bother feeling surprised. I.Y.S. had its fingers in every pie on every continent on the planet (Antarctica, too, he'd bet), and it seemed nothing was beyond their grasp. Not even gold from a little Burmese backwater town.

"That gold belongs to a client of ours…" began Nate.

"Don't care."

Ford went on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "We've had people looking into their theft and we followed the trail all the way to that village outside of Mandalay you just came back from. Clever of them to hide the loot there, but anyhow, we know who's behind the theft."

"Don't. Care."

"Or rather, what." Nate paused, as if thinking. "Or is it 'who'? How do you refer to…?"

"DON'T! CARE!" Eliot leapt up from his stool, knocking it over unceremoniously. The volume of his last pronouncement was such that it managed to pierce—briefly—through the din. For several seconds, the only sounds in the Robin Hood were the lilting tones of the television soccer commentator pondering whether a yellow card was going to be given out.

Thankfully, the referee _did_ choose to issue a yellow card and the pub's patrons were quickly reabsorbed into the game, shouting about blindness and bias in sports refereeing.

Eliot tried not to look sheepish as he righted the felled stool. Darn that Nate Ford! He certainly knew how to trample on a man's last nerve.

Sitting heavily back down on his newly upright stool, he took a deep, calming breath and tried not to let his temper erupt again when he noticed his mug of beer was drained and worst yet, he had only a single, lonely spring roll left. And likely, it was now cold and stringy, since he'd left to sit for so long. Still, a spring roll at Robin Hood's was still a spring roll at Robin Hood's, cold or not. He stuck his fork in and brought it reverently up to his lips.

That's when he spotted them.

They stood out a mile away, clad as they were in dark suits and sunglasses—you just didn't go around a tropical country at night in double-breasted suits and shades. Unless you were some kind of vampire, which Eliot supposed they were, in a sense.

There were five of them, all headed straight for him and Ford. One reached into his jacket pocket to extricate a cell phone, and in the moment he lifted it to his ear, Eliot confirmed their identities. The tattoos that ran all up his arm, of course, were a dead giveaway.

Yakuza.

Japanese gangsters in an English pub in the middle of a Thai city, gunning for two Americans. How very multicultural.

"I take it those were the people who took your client's gold," murmured Eliot. He placed the spring roll, still speared to the tines of his fork, back on the plate with no small amount of regret.

"That would be them, yes," Ford concurred.

Those were the last words they exchanged, for in the next moment, the Yakuza had approached them. The gangsters didn't waste any time beating around the bush. "We've come to collect our Krugerrands."

Nate stepped forward, slipping into his insurance problem-solver persona. Eliot knew for a fact that this was one of Ford's techniques to lull his opponent into a false sense of security. He knew because he'd fallen for it before. Ford would be glib and act all big-city business—then he'd pounce, and you'd realize you'd just been attacked by as dirty a fighter as any street thug. Only he was more dangerous because he was smart.

It was actually quite admirable.

He was reciting his naïve-sounding spiel at the moment. "Well, see, fellows, there's the question of ownership. There seems to be a dispute as to whether they are, indeed, _your_ Krugerrands."

Each of the thugs' eyes narrowed. One (probably the leader on that particular mission) asked in a polite, though menacing tone (an amazing blend Eliot wished he could master) what exactly Nate was talking about.

Eliot was through with talking. "Listen, guys, just answer me one thing." He fixed the leader with a cold stare. "Were you or were you not going to pay me for retrieving the gold?"

In answer, they all grimaced at him from beneath their designer shades.

Eliot sighed. "Yeah, this isn't going to be pretty."

Nate Ford suddenly clambered onto the bar. "Okay, you want the gold?" He crouched down and reached for something behind the counter. "You got it."

He'd hauled up something from behind the bar. It was a rice sack full of little shiny circles, all glinting golden in the pale light of the bar. Eliot realized too late what he was going to do, but his mouth was already forming the word, "No…"

"Hey, everyone!" bellowed Nate. He tossed the sack across the bar in an arc, so that it spilled its contents every which way. "Gold!"

There was one moment of sustained silence (not unlike when Eliot had had his outburst) before all hell broke loose.

The next few minutes were a blur of violent activity. People stampeded towards the fallen gold pieces as the Yakuza guys rushed Eliot and Nate. Eliot delivered blow for blow, but they were tenacious little termites. They fought well, having obviously trained in karate and judo, and elegantly, but there was no mistaking their lethal intent.

The rain of punches and kicks were stymied somewhat by the surging mass of humanity fighting over the shiny gold circles Ford had pitched across the bar. They fought each other like cats and dogs, biting, clawing, and scratching to get at the precious metal. In the melee, Eliot managed to get one of the guys by the throat, and another on the ground by pressing his boot against the man's windpipe. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ford smashing a beer bottle over the cell phone owning Yakuza's head. Then, Nate turned and delivered a devastating right hook to another gangster's jaw. It would've been enough, but he followed with a series of jabs to the man's stomach. He moved quickly, never giving his opponent the chance to respond or even to surrender.

Yeah, Nate Ford didn't fight pretty.

It was only after the police finally arrived and hauled everyone away (except the two of them, who were let off after Ford flashed his credentials and said "I.Y.S." to the officer in charge) that Eliot realized just how _ugly_ a fighter Nathan Ford really was.

The gold he'd had the bar patrons fighting over? Nothing but chocolate coins wrapped in gold paper.

"What?" Ford retorted. "Did you think I was capable of flinging eleven pounds of gold across the bar by myself? You do the math."

It had been a mean little trick. Several of the customers had wound up with minor injuries, but Eliot supposed that was a small price to pay to learn the dangers of greed. And the shoving, jostling crowd had helped him and Ford contain the Yakuza threat until the authorities arrived.

Ugly methodology, but neat results.

That seemed to sum up Nathan Ford rather well. He could be good, he could be bad, he could be downright ugly, but he got _results_.

Something about that appealed to Eliot, but he was too tired to examine it too deeply.

He brushed glass off a bar stool and plopped down. Amazingly, his plate with the fork with the single spring roll speared to it laid across it had survived the chaos and was still sitting serenely on the counter, as if waiting for him. Of course, there were also bits of brown glass sprinkled liberally over his little bit of culinary heaven, and for good measure, a drop of blood decorated the edge of the plate.

He sighed. His muscles were sore and he hadn't filled his spring roll quota.

He started to get up to leave when a hand settled on his shoulder. The next thing he knew, the glass and blood-covered plate had been cleared away and in its place was another piled high with steaming hot, crispy spring rolls.

Nate Ford gave him his trademark smile. "Compliments of the chef," he said simply. "Take care, Eliot."

He nodded politely and picked his way across fallen chairs and toppled tables out into the balmy Bangkok night. Eliot watched him go, unable to keep the hint of a smile from creeping onto his face.

Nathan Ford. _Good_.

Nathan Ford. _Bad_.

Nathan Ford. _Ugly_.

Eliot Spencer.

_All of the above_.

There was a kind of poetry and destiny in that, but for the moment, he pushed aside all his heavy pondering and tucked into his heavenly spring rolls.


End file.
